


A Song for Ghosts

by siberianchan



Series: Sing for me [7]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: JJ is well-meaning but REALLY annoying, M/M, Phichit is my sunshine son who can never do wrong, and when it comes to representing yourself and a group you belong to, but still, it's never an easy choice and always a relatable one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22636510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siberianchan/pseuds/siberianchan
Summary: A few years have passed since they went their separate ways.They have all settled down, more or less, are getting ahead, more or less, are happy, more or less - or are restless. More or less.And then, they all get, one after the other, a very unexpected visitor.Not Richard Wagner, no.Worse.The wanna-be Frenchman who has a plan he is just dying to tell them about and to put into action.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri & Victor Nikiforov & Phichit Chulanont & Jean-Jaques Leroy, Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Series: Sing for me [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/814071
Comments: 9
Kudos: 7





	1. The first notes

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably the last thing I will ever post for "Sing for me" - well, that's what I am saying now. You know me, I will probably grow ten ideas over the next few months.  
> Why am I saying that?  
> Well, you might wanna check out the end notes.

  
The morning sun of Milan was one of the delights Viktor sometimes wondered whether he really needed it in his life.

Sure, on a Sunday it was a pleasure to wake up early, just before dawn and then curl up on the window sill with a large mug of hot, freshly brewed tea in winter or a glass of sweet, cool milk in summer and watch as the sky turned first from velvety black to a translucent indigo, like a finely cut gemstone through which the light shone with more and more power until then, all of a sudden, the sky turned grey, just for a moment, before the first sliver of rosy fire crept over the horizon.

Viktor had spent too man years in Dresden trapped in his cave under the theatre, hiding from everyone even when he had wandered the the house to not enjoy the small luxury of waking up in a regular room with windows and a view over the city without having to worry about how to sneak back down to his regular abode.  
He enjoyed sunrises.

But that didn't mean that he had to enjoy every sunrise Milan had to offer.

On a Monday, sunrises where decidedly unappreciated, especially when the Sunday night before had been a long one.

“Urgh-” he heard the sweetest, most wonderful voice in the whole universe mutter and the mattress under him shifted. The blanket was pulled a little from him and he was in the relative cool.

“What's the time?“ he asked.

“No idea,“ Yuuri mumbled face buried in the pillows, voice muffled. “Too early.“

“That is not a time on the clock,“ Viktor yawned and sat up.

Sunlight was beginning to stream through the window into their bedroom, thick and heavy with remnants of rising red.

The floor was still littered with their clothes from yesterday where they had dropped them and Viktor sighed in regret. Yuuri would spend the afternoon cursing their tardiness and trying his best to smooth out any wrinkles in their trousers and waistcoats, which in Viktor's opinion was a terrible way to spend any afternoon, even a Monday.

His pocket watch on its nail in the wall ticked peacefully. “It's half past five.“

“Too. Early,“ Yuuri declared into he pillow.

“I wholeheartedly agree, my heart,“ Viktor yawned. And still they had to get up and get ready and face another day.

And Viktor loved to face every day with Yuuri. It would have been nice if the days they faced together didn't start so early, though.

He stretched and climbed out of the bed.

Yuuri mumbled something and continued so when Viktor changed into clean day clothes.

“Come on, love,“ Viktor said. “Get up, yes?“

Yuuri stirred ever so slightly. “Hm.“

“I am downstairs and make us some coffee, yes?“

That at least got Yuuri to move a little more. “Coffee?“

“Exactly.“ Viktor bent over and kissed him on the brow. “But you only get some if you are downstairs and dressed when I am done.“

Yuuri sighed and turned to look at him with bleary eyes. “You are a very cruel person.“

“Which is precisely why you love me so much.“

“True.“ Yuuri reached up for another kiss. “Alright.“

Viktor smiled and left him to get up on his own.

The kitchen with its small, westwards facing windows was still shrouded in shadows and chilly when Viktor came in. Sighing he first started the fire on the stove, then grabbed the kettle and a trowel to fill it with water and put it on the stove, just as the fire inside had begun to crackle merrily.

Next step, coffee.

Measuring the beans and grinding them was such a pleasantly numb activity he could do it even half asleep only for the warm, earthy scent of the fresh grounds to wake him up.

Then the coffee wandered into the pot, along with some cinnamon and nutmeg, just the way Yuuri liked it and then the boiling water over it.

Now all there was left to do was to wait for the coffee to steep and get them something to break fast.

When Yuuri came down a few minutes later Viktor had cut up what was left of their bread and toasted it in a frying pan, along with some bacon and was just frying two eggs in the leftover grease.

He yawned. “Smells delicious.“

“It is nothing big,“ Viktor replied.

“It's more than I'm capable of in the morning,“ Yuuri said and grabbed two plates and mugs. “Morning.“

“You are capable of getting dressed in order to earn yourself your coffee. Morning again, love.“

It took Yuuri a few sips of coffee and a bite of bacon before he could actually speak in whole sentences. “You know, I know fully well that you hate waking up so early as much as I do,“ he said, “why are you doing this to yourself?“

“If I did not, I would stay in bed with you and hate getting up even more,“ Viktor sighed. “I hate getting up early, especially when the most lovely man in the world is sleeping next to me, but even more I hate having to get up in a hurry, rather than slowly and in peace and with a decently filling breakfast.“ He forced himself to suppress a yawn as Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “I really do not wish to appear rushed and tired in front of your father, lest he withdraws his approval of my person.“

“You-“ Yuuri took a sip of his coffee. “You are still afraid of Celestino not liking you. We've been here for three years now, I think it's a little late for him to change his mind about you.“

“Best not to take any chances,“ Viktor hummed. “He will announce his plans or _Nabucco_ today, right?“

“At least he said so,“ Yuuri yawned.

“I think you would be a good Babylonian king,“ Viktor remarked.

“Might be, might be not.“ Yuuri looked into his cup. “The role is quite grandiose. Larger than life and everything.“ His mouth quirked up. “Sounds more like something you would fancy for yourself.“

That was true. Nabucco the title character had ambitions to declare himself a god. In the end he was reduced to be a victim of his ambitious daughter by a slave and could only redeem himself by converting to Judaism. This role called for delusional, grandiose, pathetic, triumphant, redeemed - yes, true, it was the kind of role Viktor adored playing.

There were other things in this world he adored as well.

“It has been a while since you have sung a baritone role,“ he said. “You will get rusty if you neglect it for too long. And people will forget how versatile you are.“

“Not gonna happen,“ Yuuri answered with a smile. “There are enough concerts and private evening parties to prevent that.“ He finished his coffee. “Shall we go?“

They should and they did.

Out on the street the sun was still busy gilding every cobblestone and every rooftop with its early rays before these grew hot enough to burn their morning work.

The streets and narrow alleyways along their neighbourhood were still asleep and quiet, most of their neighbours being either artists of leisure or other independently wealthy fellows, not bound to an early start to a regular workday.

“There is only one baritone role anyways,“ Yuuri continued as they reached the plaza in front of the theatre. “And on the other hand, two tenor roles, both perfectly in my range. No need for us to compete over a role you are better suited for anyways.“

They walked through the small archway into the inner courtyard.  
Looking around, Viktor saw that they were, in fact alone and quickly took Yuuri's hand. “Is that it? You do not want to compete against me?“

Yuuri furrowed his brow.

“Because if that is the case, please consider that there is no greater pleasure for me than watching you succeed and get ahead.“

Yuuri snorted. “I'll remind you tonight.“

Ah. Yes. Viktor sighed. “Almost no greater pleasure,“ he amended.

Yuuri chuckled. “Thank you.“ He ran his finger over the back of Viktor's hand. “If I thought I was good for the role I would try out for it, trust me.“

“Good,“ Viktor said.

“But since I am not really-“

Viktor wanted to protest, but Yuuri shot him a sharp look, “I am not and we both know it.“

He sighed and nodded to signal defeat.

“If I know who of us is better suited for a certain role, why would I bother to stress myself by going up against you when I could stress myself with getting another role in the same opera and then have a chance to sing with you?“

He was right, of course, Viktor had to admit. There were had other roles Yuuri had a better shot at getting and he could shine in these roles, far more than he would as Nabucco.

Together they could become the centre pieces of this production and dazzle everyone, so-

Again he nodded and then, after another quick look around he lifted Yuuri's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on it. “We will be great together then, yes?“

Yuuri smiled. “We will. But first - let's get this day over with, yes? And then tomorrow and the rest of the week and on Sunday, breakfast with Celestino.“

“Yes,“ Viktor agreed an now he let go of his hand.

He still stayed at his side as they entered the theatre and he never really left his side as they went about their day.

This was perfect. They were established. They had had engagements - both together and sometimes, only for a few weeks, individually - out of Milan, in Siena, Verona, Rome, Venice even.

They had a life and it was a successful, stable, good life.

And Viktor loved it. He would have never though he'd enjoy quiet so much.

There was a letter when they came home around in the afternoon, after morning rehearsal, lunch and then Yuuri's private tutoring session with Viktor were all over and done.

Yuuri was too tired after having gotten up too early for his liking and just wanted to head upstairs to drop into bed for an hour or two.

When the day had been especially challenging that was his usual routine, just to get a few moments to calm down, collect himself and be ready for the world again.

Viktor knew better than to disturb him.

But there was the letter.

Yuuri saw it on the floor at their front door and picked it up before Viktor had even a chance to do anything, but to ask, “Who is it from?“

Yuuri took his time to take in the hand writing, then the seal before he peeled that offf and took a look at the letter itself.

His face immediately brightened up. “Phichit!“

Oh. Viktor pushed away something that felt suspiciously like jealousy.

He leaned over to peer into the letter. “What does it say?“

Yuuri was quiet for a while, but didn't turn away, so Viktor could read.

Basicallly, Phichit was about to head down to Italy.

“I'll be very happy to meet you again,“ he said and Viktor definitely didn't doubt that. Phichit Chula definitely was looking forward to seeing Yuuri again, yes. An Viktor didn't mind it, as long as he could be present at the time and take care that Phichit Chula didn't get the idea of taking any unwarranted liberties.

His eyes wandered further along the letter.

“He'll be here in two weeks,“ he said. “Think we have the house ready to greet guests by then?“

“Yes,“ Viktor said, “Yes, I think we can do that."

Yuuri smiled and turned his attention back to the letter.

“I am very much looking forward to meeting your lover too.“

“I bet,“ Viktor muttered. it earned him a gentle jab in the side from Yuuri. “To be honest, I am actually looking forward to meeting him, too.“

Yuuri smiled. “Me too. I bet you'll like him.“

“Are you sure about that?“ Viktor asked, smiling. “I still am seriously considering challenging him to a duel for your hand in marriage.“

“You are ridiculous,“ Yuuri sighed. “I love you.“

Even after three years Viktor could never get enough of Yuuri saying that. He pressed a quick kiss on his temple as Yuuri continued with the letter.

“I hope you find it not impertinent of me to bring someone with me.” He smiled. “Oh my. Looks like you won't need to duel yourself with him one way or another.”

“Even better,” Viktor declared, because honestly, he hadn't actually fancied the thought of duelling with Yuuri's former patron, no matter how justified he would have been. He preferred to be friends with the people Yuuri liked more than to not be.

“I think we should make a few arrangements for our guests until they arrive, then, don't you agree?”

Yuuri agreed and for the next two weeks in-between rehearsals, evening performances and social engagements with colleagues or patrons they busied themselves with cleaning the house, getting fresh flowers - Viktor resolved to bequeath a bouquet of fresh flowers to him more often, Yuuri certainly deserved it - and making sure that their wine shelf was properly stocked with beverages of both fine quality and sufficient quantity.

Phichit had not given them a clear date of his arrival, so they didn't bother ordering food in advance when they didn't know when they would use it.

The two weeks practically flew by and Viktor could not remember the last time he had felt so utterly occupied in every facet of his being - except when he had written and composed Russalka, maybe or when he had worked with Maestro Cialdini to adapt the text to Italian.

Truth was, he was nervous about this. From what Yuuri had told him Phichit Chula was nothing but a perfectly friendly, kind, upstanding man with a decent business sense. From that little portrait he had made of Yuuri, Viktor also knew that he was a very skilled artist with a sharp eye and undeniable affection for his former protegé.

He certainly had retained at least some of this affection or he wouldn't have written about his trip to Milan.  
What if he still wasn't over his affection for Yuuri and what if this reconnection was an attempt to woo him once more and-

He was being stupid, of course. Yuuri had turned Phichit down when Viktor had been down there in his cave, he had not turned to him when his jealousy had caused them to fight and he surely would not change his mind now when they had a happy life together, had built a home, no, surely not, but-

But some small part of Viktor, a very small and on most days insignificant part, one he could usually easily ignore and push aside, in a way had never left the cave underneath the Dresden theatre. Maybe it never would. It was this part of him that whispered these thoughts into his mind in the same, high-pitched, desperate twitter he remembered had been his way of talking, back then when Yakov had first brought him down there.

He threw himself into whatever was to do in these two weeks, both to keep himself occupied and to keep Yuuri from busying himself too much, rather than looking forward to Phichit's visit.

It also helped keeping that voice from the cave from engulfing his every thought.

Maybe someday he would tell Yuuri about it. Maybe Yuuri could help him with that after he had dealt with his own demons without succumbing to them.

Not today, though.

Not when sometime during their rehearsal of _La Cenerentola_ a delivery boy had appeared and handed an envelope to Maestro Cialdini and not when Maestro Cialdini had handed said envelope to Yuuri after they were done and certainly not when this envelope turned out to be a telegram.

“Arrived in Milan safely. STOP Are staying at the Grand Hotel Royal STOP Via Giuseppe Vittorio STOP Hope to see you tonight for dinner there STOP Look forward to see you STOP Phichit”

Yuuri grinned as he lowered the small, yellow piece of paper. “Looks like his business is going well.”

“Looks like it, yes,” Viktor agreed and put as much exuberant delight in his voice as he could muster. He had always wanted to treat Yuuri to these finer things in life Phichit seemed to be able to afford. Back before he had felt on way out but to retreat down under the theatre that would have been no problem. He had been a star singer at the Dresden Royal Court Theatre, well-loved by the audience and getting top billing most tenor singers would have been envious of.

But after his disappearance, his supposed death he had always known that he would have to start again from scratch. Maybe not as a chorus singer anymore, but he had always known he would have to rebuild any clout, any fame, any reputation he had once had had. It was alright with him. It was a challenge and there were only a few things, Yuuri and Yura aside that Viktor loved more than a challenge.

But this challenge meant that he had not the funds he once had, most of his savings having gone to help start their life here.

Phichit Chula had these funds and he had always enjoyed using these on treating Yuuri to fine foods and nice clothes. Surely he would like to continue to do this and-

And Yuuri had decided that this was nice and that Phichit Chula was a good friend and great company and that he wanted to be with Viktor.

No, there was definitely no reason for him to worry.

And still, he ran a hand over the sleeve of his evening suit, the best he owned, one of the first purchases he had taken here in Milan, even before they had found themselves their house. A singer who wanted to seriously entertain his patrons had to look respectable, after all. “At least we do not have to fret about the house being presentable tonight,” he mumbled.

Yuuri stood next to him, smiling brightly at the prospect of reconnecting with an old friend as they both looked across the street at the Grand Royal.

Then he turned to Viktor. "No need to worry, love," he whispered. "He will like you, you will like him and the evening wont end in a duel."

“I would not be so sure about that,” Viktor answered with a smile in his voice that was almost not forced. “The only reason I would duel him for would be your hand in marriage anyways, a most noble reason to duel anyone for, if you ask me.”

Yuuri smiled and gently, quickly ran a finger over the back of his hand. “No need for that, either.”

They crossed the street and walked through the entrance where a liveried servant bowed deeply to them and politely asked for their names.

“Katsuki Yuuri and Nikiforov, Viktor,” Yuuri answered. “We are meeting Mr. Chula and company.”

The servant looked as if he was pondering it, then he nodded. “Ah, yes, I know. Please, follow me.” He waved to them as he began to walk. “Mr. Chula has reserved a private room. for his guests and himself,” he explained in a low voice, as they wandered through the rows of tables and people.

Viktor suppressed the urge to furrow his brow. He sometimes and had patrons who had booked private rooms for their dinners in order to do and ask for favours in return for their continued support.

Not that he thought Phichit Chula was the sort to pull that sort of thing off on Yuuri when Yuuri brought his lover along, no, but-

The young man opened a door and bowed as he let them through.

Another young man took their coats and bowed before he left.

“Yuuri!”

Viktor had watched Phichit sometimes when he had been visiting at the theatre and he had sometimes heard his voice, so he could recognise the sweet, high-pitched pitter-patter at once.

The man belonging to the voice was as good-looking as Viktor remembered, with sparkling, dark eyes and skin like polished, smooth bronze. He was slender and lithe and graceful as he walked up to them to pull Yuuri in an embrace that was almost too familiar for Viktor to not wish to intervene.

He forced himself to stand down, stand still just watch and wait.

Yuuri laughed. “Phichit! It's so good to see you, you-” He wrapped his arms around Phichit Chula's shoulders. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Phichit finally let go of Yuuri and, after another two or three moments shook off his arms with a very gentle shrug to turn around to Viktor. “And you must be my dreaded, dreadfully successful rival, then.”

Oh dear, there was no way in heaven or hell or even on earth Viktor could dislike him. He took the offered hand without even a moment of hesitation. “Yes. Viktor Nikiforov. Very happy to meet you, at last.”

Yuuri beamed. “Viktor is the composer of _Russalka_ , too.”

“Oh yes, I watched it in Dresden, it is marvellous! Such a wonderful tragedy and still so hopeful an ending!”

“'es, a 'ery 'opeful ending indeed, just 'at I could not get 'o it 'en I saw it.”

Viktor froze, just a little, and turned to Yuuri who had veritably blanched. “Oh,” he said. “So, the person you announced in your letter-”

“Ah, M'sieur Nikiforo' a'd Kad'ski!” Jean-Jaques Ilroi waltzed up to them, arm outstretched and before any of them could do anything about it he had kissed them left-right-left each. “So lov'ly 'o 'ee 'ou a'ain!”

“Mr. Ilroi,” Yuuri finished weakly. “That is- unexpec- oh, Miss-”

“Isabeau!” Ilroi exclaimed, “You remember my sweet Isabeau, come hear, darling, come!” As ever, his accent had the marvellous ability to just vanish, leaving his German to be intelligible at last.

Miss Isabeau was as quiet and critical as last time they had seen her as she approached them and extended her hand for them to kiss it.

Yuuri did so with resigned obedience.

Viktor did so with a racing mind. So Phichit had not brought a new lover along. So he might still hold strong affection towards Yuuri and he might still-

“Come now, sit,” Phichit chirped and guided them towards a table. “Oh, it is so lovely to see you again, Yuuri, Dresden is really not the same without you.”

“I guess,” Yuuri murmured. “How are things these days?”

“Quieter,” Phichit said after a moment of deliberation.

Viktor cleared his throat. “Is Richard Wagner still there?”

Phichit gave him a curious look and then shook his head. “No, he- well, he was apparently too involved in that mess back then-”

“Mess is a kind e'spression,” Ilroi remarked.

“And he had to leave the city. Apparently he lives in Bavaria now? I didn't keep up with him. He never struck me as the kind to keep the company of foreign spice traders.”

“Their money, at best,” Viktor agreed.

“Can't say I miss him,” Phichit finished.

Alright, Viktor did begin to like him.

“But I am very glad to meet you at last,” Phichit continued. “Yuuri's been talking about you so much! Of course he never mentioned your name or the fact that you were presumed dead.”

“I had very good reasons,” Viktor said. “Mainly related to the man who is in Dresden no more.”

Phichit nodded. “I see. How do you like Milan?”

For a while Phichit focussed all his attention on Viktor and Viktor could not help but reciprocate the gesture.

A maitrè brought them an entreè for a clear, fragrant onion soup with toasted sippets of white bread and poured a dry white wine that went well with it.

Yuuri sniffed at his glass before taking a sip.

“Ah, decent wines,” he sighed. “Something, Dresden certainly did not offer to a simple chorus singer without breaking his bank.”

“Were the drinks you bought for yourself so bad?” Phichit laughed.

“You have no idea. Their idea of champagne was nice, though. Certainly better than prosecco. And don't get me started on the beer.”

“'ever unders'ood zat,” Ilroi agreed, “'errible drink.”

Viktor wondered whether his tongue hurt from putting on that much of a fake accent. He managed a smile. “When Mr. Chula-”

“Phichit, please!”

That man was disgustingly likeable, Viktor concluded, disgusting.

“When Phichit wrote that he was bringing someone with him we would not have expected it to be you,” he said. “What brings you here?”

Ilroi shrugged. “Ah, me a'd Isabeau 'ust 'ad 'o go a'd see I'aly a'd we 'ew ou a' 'ere, zo 'e 'ad 'o dobb 'y! 'ikto' 'ow a' 'ou!” He turned to him, smiling and reached over the table to pat his hand. “'Ou 'ook good! 'ow iz ze eye!”

“Still blind, obviously,” Viktor replied and ran a hand over the hair that was covering his scarred left side. Next to him, Yuuri grew a little tense.

The maitrè came, poured them some more wine and then took away their plates.

“Is Milan to your liking?”, Yuuri asked now. “Have you seen us at the Scala yet?”

“Ah, non, non! 'ut I 'ill, I 'ill! 'ut I am 'ere 'or anozzer reazon, too.”

“Oh,” Viktor said, not very intelligently.

Phichit furrowed his brow. Apparently this was news to him, as well.

“Zee, we were in Bern 'hen 'e medd Mr. CHula, a'd 'e told uz 'e was 'eading 'ere. And 'e zought idd a good idea. And on zadd day I 'ad anozzer idea!” He smiled around.

Miss Isabeau patted his hand.

“Zee I 'anted to be a 'riter fo' a 'ong time now,” Ilroi continued.

Good for him, Vikor thought, but what did that have to do with them?

“'ut idd iz zo 'ard coming up wizz gud ideas!” Ilroi took a sip of his wine.

The maitré came with the second course, roast lamb on a piperade of red and yellow peppers and fine, white rice.

He served a strong, dark red wine with it that shimmered in their glasses like a garnet on a noble lady's finger or on her throat.

Viktor considered it and wondered whether Yuuri would accept a cravat pin with a garnet as a gift. His birthday was coming up in a few months.

He took a sip, let the strong flavours roll over his tongue and looked at Ilori who was already eating.

“'onder'ul lamb, zo 'ender.”

“You said you had trouble coming up with good ideas?” Yuuri asked.

“Oui, oui, mon dieu, I go mad!”

“Maybe I am misinformed in that regard, Viktor said, “but in my experience, writing demands you to have an idea to write about.” It might have come out a little meaner than he had wanted to.

Ilroi nodded slowly. “Oui, oui, oui, 'ut 'ell, if 'ou 'annot make up a ztory 'ourself, 'ou find one and I found one on my way here.”

“Oh,” Viktor said, “that is good.”

“Oui, oui!” Ilroi shoved a piece of lamb into his mouth and was quiet for a moment.

Then, after he had chewed and swallowed, he pointed with his fork to them. “You!”

“What,” Yuuri said, flatly.

“You two!” He gestured to them with his fork. “'our ztory, 'our drama, 'iktor, 'our tragedy! I will writelabou' 'ou a'd abou' 'oung 'uri Plisetsky, oui!”

What-

“You will do no such thing,” Viktor declared at once. “No, no, no, don't even think of it!”

“What?” Ilroi blinked at them. “But I al'eady 'ave zoght abou' zis!”

“What if we say no?”, Yuuri asked, shaking his head with his nose scrunched up in that particular fashion that betrayed supreme irritation. Viktor usually saw this expression only when he was arguing with a certain lead soprano who had replaced Sara Crispino half a year ago and who had - in Yuuri's opinion - a rather strenuous relationship to punctuality and a far closer one to the wine bottle.

Ilroi's eyes widened. For a moment he was silent and then - then he started to laugh.

Viktor wondered whether the poor man had gone mad at last. When he exchanged a look with Yuuri he found some reassurance in the knowledge that he wasn't alone in this thought.

Phichit cocked his head. “Mr. Ilroi, are you feeling well?”

Bless him, Viktor thought.

Ilroi laughed on for a little longer before he took a sip of his wine. “Oh, oh my dears, I am afraid you misunderstood me,” he said and now there was not even a hint of a supposedly French accent in his voice. Viktor couldn't help but be grateful for that.“If you like the idea of seeing your life story as an acclaimed novel, that is wonderful and makes my work so much easier. If the idea displeases you, well I will have to do a lot more abstraction and estrangement when I write. That is all. I will write it one way or another, but I thought it more polite to announce my intent to you before putting it into action.”

On second thought, his accent-free self was even more irritating than the foppish presentation he had put on before.

“No, it is not,” Viktor snapped.

Miss Isabeau's eyes widened in worry. She looked between Viktor, Yuuri and Ilroi and then decided to inch up to her lover a little closer.

“It is impressively rude, actually, to disregard the opinions and wishes of your topics, when these wishes are so clearly opposed to your plans. It is even ruder when your topics are still alive!”

Phichit looked around. “Maybe some more wine-”

“Not a good idea,” Yuuri replied.

Ilroi shook his head, bemused. “You would be famous.”

“Correction,” Yuuri said, “we are famous. We are two of the best known, best loved solo singers at one of the best opera houses in the world. We are engaged here almost every season. Not to mention we have at least one guest engagement per year elsewhere, all over Europe. Fame is the last thing we are in want of.”

Viktor wanted to kiss him, but in front of an audience that would have been incredibly rude. “This is also precisely the reason I am against it,” he said, forcing himself very hard to remain calm.

“What would the one thing have to do with the other?” Ilroi asked.

God, Viktor hated dealing with normal people. “See, M. Ilroi, me and Yuuri are not overly secretive about our relationship,” he said. “Quite the opposite, I would say. Our closest friends know about us, we live together in an arrangement that is very domestic, without question. When someone asks we are as open and honest as we think we can be.”

“That is very nice for you,” Ilroi said. “Me and my sweet Isabeau are doing the same.”

“Yet, unlike you two we cannot afford to be careless and let everybody know about the nature of our relationship,” Viktor continued, forcing himself to smile. “We cannot be public about it, precisely because we are famous. Our careers would be over. Mine already was once.” And it still stung.

“Oh,” Ilroi said, but Viktor doubted that the words were sinking in.

“We need you to consider the fact that people like us are in most places of the world decidedly not allowed to exist without being severely punished whenever the authorities in said get the chance,” Yuuri said.

Viktor took a sip of his wine. Maybe they should have headed to France, rather than Milan. Under the Code Napoléon people like them were not exactly protected but also not hunted, not officially, maybe they would have had an easier time there, maybe-

The maitrè entered the room again, filled their glasses and left again.

Only when the door had closed behind him Yuuri continued. “If Viktor and I were publicly known as sodomites, the Milan police might arrest us. Even if not, for whatever reason, we still would loose any goodwill with our audience we might have had so far. We might affect the Scala and would be made to leave. Depending on how fast and far news travelled we would not find another engagement, either together or by ourselves. As Viktor has put it, our careers would be over. And it would not even be just us.”

“That makes no sense,” Ilroi protested. “I mean, your worries for your own well-being are all right and fine and could still be soothed with enough abstraction, but-”

Viktor lifted the glass to his lips. After a moment of consideration he emptied it in one swig, before putting it down.

Yuuri shot him a warning look, but for now Viktor ignored him. “People like us seek company of like-minded people,” he said. “We want friends as much as everybody else and we want friends we can be completely honest and open with. Now if we are involved in any sort of scandal of a delicate nature, a scandal about our life together, any friend we might have would be under suspicion, as well. In time, their loves would be ruined as well as ours.”

Phichit cleared his throat, turning all eyes to him. “I thank you very much for your consideration.”

Ilroi stared at him. “What?”

Phichit rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, you can't be that oblivious,” he sighed.

“So-” Ilroi said, “'ou don'd zink zis a good idea eizer?”

“No,” Phichit said, “sorry, I like my business, I like staying in business and I would very much like my family not to be publicly shamed.”

Ilroi took a sip of his wine.

Again they were silent for a moment when the maitrè came in to refill their glasses with the same, ink-dark wine as before.

Viktor had to force himself not to empty the glass again.

“I 'ould 'odd 'ave zought zis to zat big o' a 'broblaim,” Ilroi said. “'ou magge idd 'oud 'ery droubbling in'eed.”

“That might be because it is rather troubling to us,” Phichit said.

For a moment his and Viktor's eyes met and they both sighed in mutual understanding. There was, after all, a reason why people like them preferred keeping among themselves.

Ilroi sipped his wine and ate his food and was quiet for a while.

They filled the silence with forcibly pleasant conversation about Milan, Dresden, opera music, art, trade, Miss Isabeau's impressions of all this and fora while Viktor thought they were over it, the conversation was done and taken care of, Ilroi had gotten the point.

Of course, since this was the best possible outcome of this situation and since Viktor was involved, this did not happen.

Dessert came, a rich, creamy dish that smelled of cinnamon and vanilla and was garnished with sprinklings of caramel.

Along with that pale golden wine as sweet as the first dew in the morning.

And the sweetness had barely touched Viktor's lips when Ilroi spoke again.

“Well, he said, “well, I cannot say I do not see your point or your worries.” He dabbed his lips with his napkin.

“How kind,” Yuuri remarked.

“I think, with enough abstraction to names and places and such, it should be fine,” Ilroi continued.

Viktor did very much not like where he was going with this.

“Maybe if I tone down your relationship to allusions, hints, implications-”

God, could he please, please just choke on something, please?

Under the table Viktor felt Yuuri's hand reach for his and he closed his fingers around it so tightly it must have hurt.

Yuuri, just reciprocated the touch and, very softly, nodded in agreement.

“Mr Ilroi,” Phichit said, not unkindly, “you would have to tone down aspects that make this story so interesting to you by your own admission, you would be leaving not much of interest to tell.”

Viktor's life was not interesting then? He was tempted to huff a little at that notion. He didn't.

“And not matter what you do, as long as there is a hint of this sort of thing remaining in your final work, you will have a very hard time finding a publisher or even a printer who is willing to produce it.”

“Might be, yes,” Ilroi agreed. He was smiling, though.

God, Viktor wanted to strangle him.

“Why would you do it, then?” Phichit asked.

“Simple, it's a good story.” Ilroi said, shrugging, but he looked almost defensive doing so. “Good stories should be told.”

“Yes, surely, a good story,” Viktor said and now he did down his wine in one swig. “A good story not too many people need to know about, because if too many people knew about that good story that good story could end very badly for a few, if not a lot real people, because this world is not a good or safe place for us to be in.”

Ilroi looked at him as if he had expected that reply. “I'll have you be the judge of that. But you know why these laws exist?”

“Because people are idiots,” Yuuri answered.

Viktor suppressed a smile. Somewhere on the other side of the ocean Yuri Plisetsky would be very proud of the influence he had had over Yuuri Katsuki.

“Uneducated idiots,” Ilroi added.

Again Viktor very much did not like where he suspected this conversation to go.

He looked around for help, but Phichit seemed actually intrigued now and Miss Isabeau just smiled serenely and shrugged.

“See,” Ilroi stuffed his mouth with a spoonful of dessert, “people will always have an opinion on any given issue, whether they know something about it or not. But when they don't know anything about it, their opinion will be much more likely to be both very wrong and very bad.”

Viktor narrowed his eye. Why did this man sound like he was making sense?

“But if they never have any reason to re-evaluate their opinion, why would they?”

Viktor shot a glance to Yuuri, who shrugged, sighed and then raised his chin.

“You said that you're going to do this- thing, this, this- novel anyways, no matter what we say,” he said.

“True.”

“Then why waste your time by trying to get our approval?”

Ilroi shrugged. “Why not? So? What do you say?§ He smiled. “I mean, nonetheless I would be very happy if you considered to approved?”

At the very least he didn't ask again for the remainder of the evening.

At some point Viktor and Yuuri bid their farewell, not before extracting the promise from Phichit to visit them during rehearsal and not before having to promise lunch to Ilroi in a few days.

They walked home in silence, their hands brushing occasionally and sometimes touching for a few moments.

They didn't stay up for too long after they got home; their day started early tomorrow and there were few thing on earth Yuuri hated more than running late. And they needed their rest, it would be a long day too, rehearsal in the morning, their private lessons, a performance in the evening. Maybe a dinner with a patron afterwards. Already Viktor was glad when this day would be over.

Together they settled down under their blankets and Viktor wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, not to think about anything, not to worry, ponder, consider, but-

“What's the matter?” Yuuri asked as he put his glasses away on the night stand.

“What do you think?”

“I think a lot of things,” Yuuri answered, a teasing smile in his voice. “Like how nice you looked tonight and how much I want today be over after the performance and how slim our chances are for that and-”

“Ilroi,” Viktor sighed, “his- his idea. With the novel.”

“Ah,” Yuuri said. “I- well, he might have a point- God, I can't believe I am actually saying that. Maybe it's time you take me out to the backyard and just put me out of my misery.”

“Oh no, love, never that.” Viktor sighed. “So, you like his idea?”

“I don't know.” Yuuri settled down next to him, putting his head on Viktors chest and then he let out a deep, heavy breath. “I just- I don't want my name in it. Or yours or Phichit's or Yura's - I suppose, Otto Becker is common enough a name that he might not be an issue, but- I don't want this to be any trouble for anyone. We've had enough stress for two lifetimes, we deserve to spend the rest of this one in peace and quiet.”

“And the other thing?” Viktor continued and pressed a kiss in Yuuri's hair, “What Ilroi said and then Phichit? About positive exposure?”

“Might be something to it,” Yuuri murmured. “Or might not. Who knows. Has someone written something before that would compare to what Ilroi has in his hare brain?”

“Not as far as I know,” Viktor replied, “Anyways no matter how much or even if we care, Ilroi will go on and have it his own way anyways, so-”

“Might as well let it happen?”

Viktor nodded and ran a hand over Yuuri's shoulder, then up over his neck. His skin was so soft.

“Maybe we can talk Ilroi into making changes drastic enough that they point far, far away from us,” Yuuri chuckled and it rippled though Viktor's chest. “He can make me Chinese or- hell, I don't know, if need be he can have me have grown up in Siena, even.”

Viktor laughed and pressed a kiss on Yuuri's cheek. “You are willing to make such a big sacrifice?”

“Yes” Yuuri replied. “Pretty much anything for you.”

That was settled then, it seemed. “Well then,” Viktor sighed, “then I should see what we can do about that.

Maybe I can look at Russalka and see if I can alter the plot, just for this- novel. Or maybe I'll hand over the other fairytale.”

“The one with the waterdrop and the prince?” Yuuri sighed in dismay. “You loved that idea.”

“Yes, but it is quite similar to Hoffmann's Undine and I bet there are enough other operas with a similar story. It is a small sacrifice to make. Certainly not as big as you willing to be a Chinese Sienan.”

Yuuri laughed. “Then that is good?”

“It is- acceptable.” He pulled Yuuri closer to himself. “We will see what Ilroi makes of it. And we will see what the world will make of it.” 


	2. The da Capo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri and Otabek have sort-of settled in in Chicago. It's not perfect, not by a long shot, but it's bearable, but changing their situation would be such a risk and...  
> And then a wild J.J. appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part of "A Song for Ghosts" and if you want to know what this is, in fact, about, I really advise you to check out my other social media.

Chicago was not what either Yuri nor Otto would have expected to be, but neither had ever been to America before or had had any knowledge outside of glowing, dreamy, idealized reports of how easy it was to make it in America if one was willing to work hard and put his all into that work.

In a sense, that held true. Otto had managed to find a spot at an academy for modern art where he had been studying for about a year before he had found employment as an illustrator for a newspaper there. He was content, he had reason to be content, maybe he could have been happy. Otto wasn't happy, Yuri knew and he also knew that this was his fault.

It was annoying, too. Yuri wanted to be happy here, hell, he wanted to be content here, he wanted to, really, but that would have required a very different theatre scene for him to work with.

For starters, America would have needed an opera scene that wasn't abysmally small and so half-dead Yuri might as well just end its suffering and shoot it in its head. Sadly that wasn't an option. Neither was getting into one of the very few big houses that did exist in New York or San Francisco. In Saxony, in Europe even Yuri Plisetsky had been an up and coming star tenor, ready to conquer the world. In America he was a pretty face with a good voice and an attitude people might describe as nasty.

So here he was. Otto had stable and reasonably well-paying employment at a big newspaper and Yuri-  
Yuri had a position at a small theatre and he hated every moment of it. It was small and cramped, the stage barely measuring ten feet and their orchestra pit being non-existent. Musical ambience, if their director deemed it necessary, was delivered on an old, mistuned piano that would have made poor old Georgi weep if he had known of it. 

Yuri hated the stupid piano.

He hated the stupid director (and by now had grown mature and wise enough to not let it show. Too much.).  
He hated his stupid co-workers, insipid airheads and idiotic buffoons the lot of of them, most of them too stupid to even read one single line of Shakespeare straight.

Most of all he hated the god-damn Shakespeare. 

Yuri spoke and wrote and understood English perfectly well, maybe better than some of the American-born staff here. After four years he was even able to express his thoughts on whatever subject at hand in a very clear, understandable fashion nobody would have ever dared to call unsophisticated.

And still the best he could so far had hope for was a role as Rosencrantz or Guildenstern in Hamlet or worse, Fortinbras, roles with either almost nonexisting impact or no speaking lines whatsoever. If he was really lucky he could hope for maybe a villain like Much Ado about Nothing's Don Juan. His accent made for such a good villain, Mr. Garthing, their director claimed and at least Don Juan was a large and important role.

And still.

Yuri had been raised to be an actor and singer of the highest calibre. He had been trained to sing opera, to perform the most daunting roles, to blow the audience away with his voice, instead of rotting away on an equally rotten stage where the audience was more interested in finding a not too sick whore than watching a halfway decent performance. Granted on some days, this had been the same in Dresden, but these had been few and far in between.

He wanted to-

“Not hungry?” Otto's voice gently drew him out of his thoughts.

Nonetheless Yuri flinched as he looked up.

Between them on the table was a pot of steaming stew. In front of each of them was a bowl of equally steaming stew.

Yuri hadn't even put the spoon in.

“Oh, he mumbled, “sorry.”

“Bad day at the theatre?” Otto asked.

It was too embarrassing for Yuri to admit, so he remained silent and took a spoonful of his stew. It had chicken in it. Yuri chewed and swallowed and then took another mouthful. “It's good.”

“Mrs. Smith made it. Claims two single men rooming together can't feed themselves properly.”

“Well, she's not wrong.”

Otto laughed softly. “No, she's not.” He reached out and ran a finger over the back of Yuri's hand. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing. Just-” Just the usual but that wouldn't have been fair. The usual didn't just mean that the theatre sucked. The usual also meant that Otto was well liked at his newspaper and that his sketches were in high demand and that was often called on a crime site to sketch. The usual also meant that he was still taking lessons at his art school and was still improving his paintings and was getting better and better and enjoying every minute of it. The usual also was that Yuri was quite jealous of that. Happy for Otto, yes, but it sure would have been nice if his own work could take off like that.

“Just the theatre. Again.”

“What did they do now?”

“Discussed the cast for The Twelfth Night.”

“It has non-identical twins in it that look very similar,” Otto mused. “It's about that?”

“Yeah. I bet Sara and her brother would have killed it. Not that I ever met her brother, but well, Sara. Ad if Mila played Olivia-” Yuri shook her head.

“From what I've seen of them in Dresden the audience would have been dead by act three,” Otto remarked.

“Probably.” Yuri felt his mood improve slightly at the thought of Mila and Sara wrecking havoc in Chicago and eating away at the nerves of Sara's much talked about brother.

“What about the cast?”

The whiff of a good mood vaporised at once. “You'd think for once my stupid face would be of some use,” Yuri sighed.

“Your face is not stupid,” Otto said. “Stupidly handsome, maybe.”

“Same difference, if you ask me,” Yuri grumbled. “But yeah, a guy who is pretty enough that his twin sister only needs a fake moustache and they're exactly alike - poor sister, though, honestly and cause a bunch of confusion when they are in the same place.” He put the spoon down. “They cast me as the stupid, kill-joy manservant to the second lead lady.”

Otto's reaction was a very appropriate “What?”

“Yeah.”

“That-” He sighed. 

“Said my accent makes it too hard for the audience to understand me.”

Otto shook his head. “That's the same reason they gave for the last year, if I recall correctly.”

“Yes. And I went to see a teacher for that and I- I don't even have that much of an accent anymore, I-” Yuri groaned. “I better eat. I am ready to kill something, might as well be that bowl of stew.”

“Sounds like a solid plan,” Otto said.

Dinner went by in silence, at least for the moment.

“I bet there are other theatres in town,” Otto then said while Yuri was busying himself at the stove to make them tea.

Yuri held his hands out to warm his fingers over the hot slab of cast iron steel while he watched the kettle.

Another thing nobody had ever warned him about before he had come here. Chicago winters were awful. Yuri was glad Viktor couldn't see him like this. He would have laughed his head off about how cold Yuri was all the time and he would have chided him that he was Russian, that he was inherently predisposed to be immune to cold. 

Maybe he was right, maybe he wasn't. Fact was, that if Yuri had ever been immune to the cold he had lost that advantage when he had left Russia as a very young child.

The kettle began to hum and Yuri took away his hands and grabbed the tea box, spooning a mixture of cheap, strong black tea and fragrant lavender into the little teapot that had arrived about half a year after they had sent their first letter to Milan. It was a nice little thing of porcelain, glazed red with a black pattern almost like lace over it. Neither had Yuri guessed nor did he want to know the extent to which Viktor had terrorized the poor craftsman to make the pot and the cups and saucers going with it to his specific instructions.

God, he missed him, not that he would ever tell him.

“Yuri, you heard me?”

“Hm?”

“I said, there are other theatres in Chicago.”

Ah. Yes.

“Yes, I know, I went thought quite a few of them before I ended up where I am,” he said.

The kettle sang and he poured the hot water into the pot before carrying it over to the table.

Otto in the meantime had fetched the cups and saucers and honey and milk.

Yuri held his hands against the pot, despite the heat almost searing his skin, but the pain was almost welcome against the biting cold.

Otto grabbed his fingers and entwined them with his own. “Chicago is a big city, I bet there are more than that?”

“Maybe.” Yuri pulled a hand free and poured them their tea through a small sieve.

Otto in turn sweetened and milked their cups to their specific likings and pushed Yuris cup over to him.  
He took his own cup between his hands, the delicate porcelain looking dangerously fragile between his large, strong fingers.

Carefully Otto put it to his lips and then, gently, put it down on its saucer. “We can manage on my pay for a while,” he said. “We're both pretty frugal.”

“And we still have not a penny left over,” Yuri answered. “On your pay alone we could get by on one week or two, maybe three in summer, but- well, it's winter and-” He sighed. “And I could only look for a new engagement during work hours and if I don't show up I'll get the boot and- look, I-”

“I will gladly repeat myself and tell you that we can easily live on my pay for a little while,” Otto said and emptied his cup.

Yuri poured him another one and added honey and milk to it. 

“Or maybe we could look elsewhere?” Otto continued. “Stick it out here until spring. Maybe move to New York. There are so many theatres there, many of them even offer musical numbers. Or you could try for the Astor Palace in New York.”

No chance, not at the Astor, not with no name to him, no money and no important sponsor to back him.

Yuri didn't have the heart to inform him about his first attempt, just when they had arrived when someone who had never had anything to do with music in his entire life only had taken a look at his clothes - a little dusty, a little crumpled from weeks in the suitcase and certainly not his Sunday best, because that had looked even worse. He had sent him away without even considering his name and the fact that he had sung at one of the finest houses in Europe, claiming that anything but Paris wasn't worth thinking about.

“Do you have a plan for New York? Or San Francisco or wherever you propose we go? Do we have the money to move and settle down elsewhere?”

Otto was silent.

“See. Without a plan, without money, where should we go? What should we do? And without money or even the very likely prospect of it, making plans is pointless.”

“Then you'll hang in and I try to sell a few of my paintings - the newer ones are actually stuff I am not ashamed to show around. And we save up and we'll move when the winter lets up?”

“And your studies? You haven't finished your current coursework and-”

Otto emptied his cup, stood up and pulled Yuri from his chair with him. He took a step closer to him and put his arms around his shoulders. “You have to give one thing to the Americans, they have very good art schools in any given big city.” He pressed a kiss on Yuri's brow. “And with a good recommendation from my boss I won't have trouble finding work.” Another kiss went to Yuri's nose, then one to his lips and Yuri felt the tension of the day melt away, bit by bit, slowly, like ice and snow in the Chicago spring. “If it was up to me, we could go anywhere and I could take care of you anywhere until you find your feet. The question is-” And with that he took a step to lead them to the bedroom and placed another kiss behind Yuri's ear, “the question is, where would you want to go?”

Yuri wanted to-

He wanted to go back to Europe. Except no, he didn't really. He wanted to go back where they both had had a base or could build one or where at least he had a base to expand upon and for Otto to stand in as well and-  
He wanted to be back in a place where he could rely on himself and Otto could rely on him and where he didn't hate every moment he spent at the theatre, where he could actually enjoy his work and where he was good and his hard work was met with success and-

How could he get there again? Where was that place for him now, after he had left Dresden and refused to accompany Viktor and Yuuri Katsuki to Milan?

Where-

No answer for him. No idea. He had no clue. At least not for that.

“You know,” he murmured, “Right now, the only place I wanna be is in bed.”

The rehearsals for The Twelfth Night began and Yuri, being the good, well-bred Russian Theatre Serf he was, started working on his role as Benvolio, the foolish, kill-joy man-servant of duchess Olivia. He hated every moment of it, but at the very least, that helped him deliver on the sourpuss persona he aimed for with the role.  
Also, at the very least he could snap at the actors for Viola and Sebastian whenever he walked in on them in a state of partial undress, looking for them being late. It was the small thing in life that made it truly worthwhile living. Or at least bearable.

Annabelle Blousing, their Viola, very much did not like him, of course. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Stuart Temple, their Sebastian, was her twin on stage and her cousin off-stage and he now would have had the means to make her life just a little more difficult. Not that Yuri had any energy for that, but Annabelle didn't know that and had made it her new favourite past time to watch his every step in hope of finding something more incriminating than what Yuri had on her.

So of course it had to be her who walked up to him, smiling broadly as he was done rehearsing the scene in which Benvolio was put into a dark cell for comedic reasons. At least Yuri suspected that being duped into being considered insane had been funny in Shakespeare's time.

“Oh,” he mumbled, “hi, Annabelle.”

“You got a visitor,” she chirped, combing a hand through her corn blonde hair. Yuri supposed she usually bleached it, but had never bothered to ask.

“Ah. So?”

“Nice gentleman. Looks rich. Seems foreign. Any idea who it might be?”

Yuri shrugged. “I know a good deal of foreign gentlemen. You know, comes with singing opera for a very rich and established audience.” Because hell no, he would not let her forget that he was way above her in every and any regard. Beginning with his talents and ending with his personality. Going over his taste in men in the meantime.

Annabelle didn't stop smiling. “he seemed quite overbearing. Exuberant to be here, didn't stop talking 'bout'cha, said he knew ya.”

For a moment Yuri's heart beat a little faster. That sounded so much like-

“Was he alone or was there somebody with him?”

Surely Viktor wouldn't travel alone, right?

Annabelle shrugged. “Didn't pay any attention to it. He said he knew you. I brought him to your dressing room, I hope you don't mind.”

He couldn't say anything to that.

Slowly he went along with Annabelle to his dressing room and opened the door, ready to actually cry and throw himself into Viktor's and Yuuri's arms, glad to see one friendly face in this whole house-

“Ah! 'ello!”

Well, the face wasn't exactly unfriendly.

Yuri paused and stared at Jean-Jaques Ilroi who was happily sitting in his chair and inspected his set of stage make-up.

“What-” He needed a moment to take it all in. “What are you doing here?!” He was dimly aware of Annabelle still standing in the door. She was watching.

He breathed out. Second try, then“Hello, Mr. Ilroi. What brings you here.”

Ilroi smiled broadly and walked over to him, arms wide. “Ah, 'uri, zo 'ood 'o zee 'ou! 'ow are 'ou!” he cheered, his German as half-unintelligible as ever.

Yuri's first instinct was to run and hide and maybe let Annabelle deal with it.

Then he remembered that he couldn't or Ilroi would doubtlessly had followed him home.

He definitely could not allow that.

Slowly he breathed out and let the hug pass over him, just as well as the kisses to his cheeks, left-right-left.

“Same here, you-” He forced another awfully calm breath out of himself and another one when Ilroi finally let go of him, “you look very good. What are you doing here?”

“Aw, I waz juzt pazzin' by, 'ou zee, I am tra'elling ze 'orld zo to speek and aw, I remembered!” He then dropped the accent, thank goodness. “I remembered you planned on going here, so I did some research! How is your life going! Where is the husband!”

Yuri sucked in a breath and shot a look to Annabelle who smiled a rather puzzled smile. “So you know him, Yuri?”

“Yes!” Yuri replied quickly. “Yes, he was one of our former patrons in Dresden at the Royal Court Theatre!”

“A, so wonderful!” Now he was speaking English. Without an accent, curiously. Maybe he found it too bothersome to fake it in English. “Ah, my dear, you should have been there, Yuri here ruled over any stage he wanted to, he was glorious! Such talent!”

“Oh. Yes, so-” Annabelle cleared her throat. “Interesting. So he was an Opera singer? Oh my, what happened?!”

America, Yuri wanted to answer, America and its lacking taste for musical theatre, that's what happened, not that I would have stayed there anyways, but GOD, this country is shitty for high class artists!

He did say no such thing. He breathed out. He breathed out. He breathed in. “Well, you know,” he said, “a revolt here, an uprising there and before you know it you have to pack up your things and get out of town for singing an aria in a too revolutionary manner.”

Annabelle's face betrayed that she certainly didn't know. Not that Yuri cared. He turned to Ilroi. “It's really nice to see you,” he lied, convincingly even, “but- well it is a little inopportune, see, I-” Oh god, what should he say, he had to come up with something.

“Otto usually picks me up in about an hour or so, after we're both done with work,well-” God, he was feeling stupid. “So. What do you want?”

He had rehearesd in his street clothes today. No need to change. He only had to grab his bag and he was good to go and grabbing his bag was what he just did.

Annabelle still watched him, but her eyes began to betray gentle, mocking disinterest.

He began to walk and waved Ilroi to follow him.

“So, he said, “What do you want?”

“Oh, didn't I zay?” And the accent was back the moment Ilroi spoke German again. Urgh. “I juzt 'anted 'o zay 'ello.”

“Alight,” Yuri sighed, “you did that. So what now?”

“Uh,” Ilroi huffed and tipped his finger again his chin, “I zoughd 'aybe I 'ould zee 'ow you are living?”

What?

“Not alone!” Yuri spat out. “In a flat, not much, but- but space in a big city is expensive, renting a house would be a lot more than we could afford right now and- and it's a good place and-” He was being defensive. Why was he being defensive?!

He sighed.

“Oh!” Ilroi stared at him and almost he would have made Yuri's day and ran into a street lamp.  
But of course, he swerved at the last moment. Too bad.

What was not so bad was that Yuri could see someone walking up to them, tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed and with brad shoulders.

“Oh, look,” someone laughed who Yuri faintly remembered to be one of the three totally overworked and underpaid stage hands, “Plisetsky's watch dog.” But even that biting comment couldn't do anything do dim his delight at seeing Otto walking up to them.

Nonetheless he turned around. “What makes you think he's my watchdog?”

The man looked at him, puzzled and already opened his mouth but Annabelle, who for some reason had deemed it appropriate to follow them, was faster. “That's obvious, isn't it?” she smiled, “always fetching you, being in the audience as often as possible, he's making sure you'll never find a girl and get married, just like a good watch dog should.”

“You're feeling awfully chatty today, aren't you?” Yuri asked, “Don't you have a family reunion to celebrate or something?”

Annabelle flushed and turned around, heading back inside.

“'hadd a nice girl,” Ilroi said.

“If you say so,” Yuri sighed and turned his attention to Otto. “Hello,” he said and reached out a hand to him.

“Hello,” Otto said and took it, holding it for a moment longer than strictly necessary.

Yuri delighted in the warmth that seeped from Otto's fingers into his skin. Even in the deep Chicago winter Otto was still warm.

“Ah, Mr. Begge'!” Ilroi exclaimed and Otto, bound by politeness, looked up. “Zo 'ood 'o zee 'ou!” 

Yuri wanted to rip his stupid tongue out for interrupting their moment, especially now, that Otto let go of his hand to greet him. “Good day, Mr. Ilroi. It's been a while.”

“In'eed, in'eed, id 'az been 'ar 'oo 'ong!” Ilroi laughed, “'ow a 'ou 'oing?!”

“Very well,” Otto said, “or maybe not very well, but we get by. Nobody is sick. We are neither starving, nor freezing.”

“'ood, 'ood 'ood!”, Ilroi nodded, “'ood, bon, bon!”

There was a moment of awkward silence, if Ilroi was even capable of a sensation like awkwardness.

Then Otto said, “Well, it would be terribly rude-”

“zo zomezing 'uri Blizezgy 'ould 'o,” Ilroi remarked. Yuri wanted to kill him even more.

Otto put a hand on his arm. “Only one of us is named Yuri Plisetsky,” he said, “we should invite you over for tea. Shouldn't we?”

“Not doing so would have been rude and yes, that would have been something Yuri would have done.

But now Otto had prevented him from doing that and Yuri had no way out of it.

He nodded and vouched to himself to have Otto make up for this. Maybe he could treat him to a lunch at their favourite place down in Prairie Avenue.

“Sure. I think Mr. Ilroi will appreciate a hot cup.”

“Gladly, please lead the way.”

They walked through the streets and up their house. The streets were quiet around noon and silent with a thick layer of snow. The houses in their block were built of red brick, straightforward and without much adornment.  
Ilroi looked around with quiet interest and followed them up the rather dark stairway.

Their house was a good one, clean and without damages and windows and doors that actually shut. The ceiling was rather low, but with the blasted cold outside that was actually a bonus. Otto sometimes mumbled something about the lack of natural light, but Yuri was grateful for a room that was at a bearable temperature very soon and without wood and coal burning an even bigger hole into their pockets as they already did.  
He fumbled out the key and unlocked the door. “I'll be warm in a moment,” he said, while Otto began lighting the oil lamps that were spread around the flat. 

Their furniture was simple, and bought for the cheap price, usually from a dealer specialised in used furnishings household fabrics and tableware. Their tea set aside all their porcelain had probably once belonged to a nice old lady who had died without any living relatives. Either that or a family of eight who had gone to debtors prison after having already sold all their earthly possessions in a futile attempt to pay off a loan shark.

Similar stories were probably lurking behind their furnishings. Their bed and the chests and night stands had been sold together and looked like they had been built to match.

Otto was always amused whenever Yuri began spinning these yarns about their possessions. “You should write something about these. Something about how social injustice and the powerful praying on the weak will separate us from all we hold dear, our children, our parents, the things that hold our memories,” he sometimes said, listening to him.

Yuri liked their flat. It was their home they had gathered everything, scavenged it from every corner and it wasn't much, but God damn it, it was theirs.

So of course he felt a spike of protectiveness at the way Ilroi looked around their kitchen, ran a hand over their shelves and read the labels of the jars on their spice rack.

“Well,” Ilroi said after a while and turned around, “Well, this is a little- different from what I expected.”

“What?” Yuri let out a sharp laugh. “You've seen the theatre I'm working at, right?” He grabbed the kettle and filled it.

“Please, have a seat,” Otto said while he himself rummaged through the cabinets to find a jar of cookies a neighbour downstairs had baked for them in thanks for Yuri having caught a fat rat in her kitchen.

He arranged them neatly on a plate while the kettle began to whistle and sing and Yuri put in a blend of green tea and orange peel.

He poured the boiling water over it and then grabbed three saucers and cups, placing them on the table. “How do you take your tea?”

“Pure, please, thank you.”

Yuri nodded and poured the tea.

“Well, I wasn't inside,” Ilroi went on in his estimation, “not as an audience, but the backstage seemed rather clean and tidy, not the most prestigious, but- well. Sometimes we got to do what we got to do, I know. But in Dresden you and your- your director? Your grandfather-”

“Kinda both,” Yuri said.

“You had a very nice place in Dresden.”

“Yes, I know.” Yuri remembered. Everything in there had been picked out put into place by other people, people who had hoped to get Yakov to consider their outsider, unmusical opinion in his decisions or who had wanted to curry favour with Yuri for whatever unsavoury or less unsavoury reason that might be.

“This here is- well.” Ilroi took a sip from his tea. “Quite- different.”

“You already said that.”

“So I did. The tea is very good.”

“Good.” Yuri took a sip himself. “Why are you here?”

Otto shot him a look to warm him to not be rude but for once Yuri decided to ignore him.

Ilroi didn't appear to be bothered. “Mainly to say hello-”

“You did that. What now?”

Ilori still smiled. “-and to see how you are doing. And maybe another thing, but that can wait.”

“What other thing?” Yuri heard himself ask.

“That can wait, as I said,” Ilroi replied. “What is your current work?” he asked after a while.

“Shakespeares Twelfth Night. I'm playing Benvolio.”

“Huh. Before that?”

Yuri sighed and quickly rattled down a rough summary of the plays and his roles.  
It was not quite as impressive a list as he would have liked. 

“Oh,” Ilroi said. “And before that?”

Yuri shrugged. “Why are you asking?”

“I was hoping to find you the star of the stage. Singing.”

“You mean opera?” Yuri laughed dryly. “Here?”

“Yes, here.” Ilroi put his cup down on the saucer. It was empty. Otto lifted the pot, but Ilroi waved the offer away, his eyes still on Yuri. “What happened? You don't like singing anymore?”“No, I-” As if he'd ever not like singing. Not too long ago he would have never imagined doing anything else, ever.

But here he was. 

“I do still sing. In private.” He would have hated it if his voice deteriorated with lack of use. 

“But in private is not on stage. You belong in some lead role where everyone can admire how you sing that line or do that thing with your voice-”

“What? Hitting the notes?”

“You know what I mean!” Ilroi sighed and now he had dropped the accent completely. Yuri had thought so before, back when he had housed them after their escape from the theatre, but talking like that, like a normal person rather than a fool, he wasn't half as irritating. Maybe Yuri could even start liking him.

“So there must be a reason why you don't sing anymore and while it wasn't the reason I originally came here I now will not rest until I find out what it is!”

Or maybe he just sounded less grating without actually loosing one ounce of what truly made him so irritating.  
“Then I'll make it easy for you.” Yuri poured himself another cup of tea. A part of him wished for some liquor to put in as well, but it was too early in the day to start with that without Otto frowning at him. Also the booze would have ruined the flavour of the tea and that was something Yuri definitely frowned upon.

“This is America,” he said. “America is a very different place than Europe. For starters, the opera scene is almost non-existent and what we have here is very private and elitist and without money and connections-”

“That sounds very European to me,” Ilroi commented.

“Not if this applies to the performers,” Yuri answered. 

Ilroi furrowed his brow. “But that makes no sense. Performing arts always draw their artists from all sorts of places.”

“Not here.”

“But I thought this country was so equal for everyone.”

“Ask the black slaves down south,” Otto remarked.

Ilroi sighed. “I am sorry things are so different from what you expected. I would have hoped for it to be different.”

“Not your fault for places to be places and people to be people,” Otto said. “It is not, that it's all bad. Someone like me, for example, I would never have the money or the backing to get into an art school in Europe, because I am working class. When I got here I found first a job and then a painter who gave classes and when I was good enough I got a job as a newspaper artist. They even pay for my further education, so - I suppose for someone who is really starting with nothing this country is the perfect place. Everybody else has a shot too, but only if their field is not a tiny, closed-off club.” He poured himself another cup of tea. “Maybe the more chances a place has to offer to some the more it closes itself off to others.”

“That may well be true,” Ilroi sighed, “but well, since you both said, that backing is a problem. I think I can help with that.”

Yuri huffed. “I'd like to see how.”

“Huh,” Ilroi hummed. “Maybe with this.” He reached into his jacket to pull out an envelope. “You will have to make time for a trip down to New York Next week. Look up how long you will take.”

Yuri's head had just been able to process “trip to New York” and had only begun to wonder how to afford this.  
Then, even before he could actually finalize any thought on that matter, Ilroi slid him a fifty dollar bill over the table. “I hope this covers your travelling expenses? If not, please let me know, yes?”

Yuri, stupid as he felt doing so, nodded.

He stared at the envelope. The wax seal was as elaborate as he had ever seen one in Dresden.

The address was from-

“How did you get someone from the Astoria to talk to you?”

“Ah. Well. I am not entirely without influence, even in these parts of the world. Just so you know, there is no official dress code. Pack your Sunday best and be well-rested.”

There was something in his chest, digging, biting, gnawing at him with claws like he had never felt before, there was something here, a chance, something to go on, but still, but still, but still-

“Won't be enough.” Yuri put the letter down and even pushed it away a little, just to make his point. “They might listen to me and maybe they'll actually judge me by my voice and then- well, then they'll tell me that my income won't be sufficient to be an adequate representation of their establishment and still bid me good-bye.”

“Is that so,” Ilroi hummed.

“Yes, that is so,” Yuri replied, more annoyed than anything else by now. “I mean, I tried, I really, I-” They had wasted a month in New York because of this before they had finally decided to see where Otto could get ahead and moved to Chicago, where quite a few artists gave well-renowned classes and where newspaper artists were always in supply and where maybe Yuri had better chances at finding work. It had tasted so bitter, leaving New York, giving up, admitting defeat. Yuri would never forget it.

He stared at the letter as it was a glass of poison offered to him, its sole purpose to again make him feel every single wound he had ever received.

“Ah yes, that might be a factor. If you say so.” Ilroi sighed. “Well, I have told them that you might come or might not come. In the latter case they surely will find something to do with their free time, I am sure.” He still smiled. “That tea is wonderful. I think, I would fancy another cup now.”

“It is getting late,” Otto said, “maybe a more soothing herbal blend is better suited to the time. Green tea is a little to invigorating for the evening.”

“Oh, are you sure?” Ilroi asked with a wink, “I hear in the evenings especially, something invigorating is appreciated.”

“Speak for yourself,” Yuri muttered.

Otto got up and took the pot with him to rinse it out while he had fresh water boil in the kettle.

Yuri remained alone at the table with Ilroi and he was keenly aware on how he was being watched. He stared into his empty cup. “So. You checked up on us, you delivered what you wanted to deliver. What else is there left for you to do?”

“Outside of admiring the beauty of this city? Not much, honestly, before I travel down to Florida to meet up with my sweet Isabeau - the poor thing just couldn't bear the cold, even Jernigan is a bit chilly for her, so I left her there, so I left her there to enjoy moderate temperatures.”

“She always seemed to be doing fine to me in Dresden,” Yuri remarked.

“Ah yes, but she is so fine, so delicate, no need to put on any extra stress on her,” Ilroi said,

“So you're going to stay here until you admired the beauties of the Chicago winter to your heart's content?” Yuri asked with a wry smile. “Your trip will be quite short, then.”

“I suppose so. Honestly, I hope so. It is bastardly cold up here.”

Yuri laughed dryly.

They heard the kettle whistle. Otto was busying himself with the herb blend, putting it into the pot and pouring the water over it.

Ilroi waited until he had poured the water into the kettle before he said, “Oh, I almost forgot, there was another present I had for you.”

“Oh,” Yuri said. There had been more eloquent answers in his repertoire, to be sure, but none of them came to mind just now.

Ilroi again waited for Otto to return with the pot and had himself poured a cup. 

Only after he had taken a rather hearty sip and put down his half-empty cup again he continued to smile at Yuri in the very same fashion that made him wish he could rip out his throat.

“I talked to Mr. Nikiforov and Mr. Katsuki a while ago, back in Milan. They send their regards.”

Of course they did, wonderful idiots that they were. Yuri, despite himself, felt his mouth quirk upwards.

“I discussed an idea I had with them and after a little while of consideration they agreed with me that I had a most splendid idea. I suppose I should have talked it though with you as well, but since you are so far away- and also while your role in the story was an important one, you were not the main focus. They also insisted on changing every single name, except for the most common ones. He clucked his tongue. “Regardless, I think you should profit from what I did with it.”

Right now Yuri thought he would greatly benefit from throttling him, but America had taught him to not voice this kind of thought. America had taught him to be careful, to be cautious, to be reasonable. Blergh.  
He watched as Ilroi reached into his breast pocket again.

This time it was a book, of the usual size, two and a half hand width to one and a half hand's length. It was rather thick and the cover done in fresh, red linen that looked firm and maybe even rough to the touch.

Yuri furrowed his brow. “What am I to do with that?”

“Oh, I don't know, what does one do with books?” Ilroi asked with a smile. “Although I have heard they make for good reading material.”

Yuri pulled it closer, but didn't turn it around.   
Now, at last, Ilroi pulled out a pocket watch. “Oh my, look at the time!” He got up from his chair. “Thank you for the tea, it was a delight! No need to see me out, I'll find my way!” And with that he grabbed his coat and out he was.

They listened to the door falling shut and then Ilroi's quick steps down the stairs. Then the main door shut. 

“That was- unusual,” Otto said.

“You don't know him,” Yuri sighed. “that sort of thing is entirely normal for him. One day he waltzed in on our rehearsal, decided that one of our sopranos needed prettier dresses and abducted her from rehearsal to drag her to a dressmaker. He sponsored her for about three months afterwards unil she married a minor nobleman from Bavaria.”

“He likes to meddle, does he, huh?”

“Yep,” Yuri sighed. “Still wonder what this is supposed to be or what it has to do with us.” He cocked his head and then pulled it closer and turned it around.

The lettering of the title was in stark white, a biting contrast to the red of the binding.

 _A Song for Ghosts_ it read. Nothing that gave Yuri any idea what it had to do with him.

He opened it. 

On the first page, again the title.

Underneath a note, handwritten with even more swirls and even more gusto than what he knew from Viktor.  
As I probably have told you already, I should have informed you beforehand, but didn't so. You were too far away. Be aware, I would have proceeded with this little project no matter your opinion on it. Since it is also your story, I made arrangements for a quartlery payment into a new bank account in your name. Since sales have been quite nice so far I hope this new income will open you any door you might have found closed so far.  
Huh. Yuri cocked his head even more as Otto peered over his shoulder. “So, is it a life story or a novel?”

“No idea,” Yuri mumbled and turned over the page. 

It would be all right, Garvanos told himself, looking at the building in front of him. It would be alright.

In the bright, clear afternoon air the Royal Court Theatre, looking over a grand plaza and facing a high-towering sand stone church, appeared a lot smaller than at night when it had been alight with the soft glow of chandeliers, glistening against the darkness like a jewel.

Garvanos drew a deep breath and tried his best to let the sweet spring air calm his nerves. It would be all right. He would do fine here. He could sing – sing well enough for the Scala at the very least. He was used to getting on very little. He would try – and very likely fail – to find someone to share a place with, but Dresden was big and probably crawling with poor artists, looking for the same prospect. Maybe with some luck he could find some of his kind and have some reprieve there. 

It would be all right.

“It- I think it is a novel,” he said at last. “Kind of beigely written, though.” He read a few more pages. “Set in Dresden. May 1848- oh.” He paused. “Oh!”

“What's the matter?”

“This- this Garvanos is supposed to be Yuuri.”

“Huh?” Otto peered over his shoulder. “Ho do you get the idea?” 

“Anxious bundle of nerves, ready to break down at any moment? Weird mixture of self-pity and resolve? That's very much Yuuri. God I wanted to slap him.”

Otto chuckled. “You wanted to slap everyone back then if I remember correctly.”

“We hadn't talked then yet.”

“No, but I had noticed you already,” Otto sad and ran a hand through his hair. “Garvanos doesn't sound Chinese.”

“He's Japanese,” Yuri absent-mindedly corrected him as he continued to read.

“What's the difference?”

“No idea. Different country, but he said he spoke neither language, so-” Yuri shrugged. “Was always a bit touchy about not being called Chinese though.”

They read on for another few pages.

_Alexej Beljajew had no trouble delivering the expected feelings. Tamino's distrust against the supposed villain - be it Sarastro or one of his high priests, who knew how this production was supposed to go - was palpable and he didn't shake it off after he supposedly had started to believe his word._

_“Stop! Alexej! Tamino is not sarcastic here!”_

_Alexej Beljajew on the stage took an audible, deep breath._

_Garvanos just waited for him to start screaming. If he started screaming he wouldn't be surprised at all._   
_However, the boy did not scream._

_Garvanos heard him breathe out and then, with an utterly fake tone of resignation sigh: “Yes, true, he believes every single word strangers he doesn't know tell him and is extremely easily swayed to their cause. He probably wouldn't know sarcasm if it stood in front of him yelling his face off as he deserves for his idiocy.”_

_From down below, a soft, long-suffering groan rose to them, then ended sharply and Mr. Kirsch said, “Again. From the top.”_

Otto laughed. “That sounds so very much like you, it's wonderful.”

“I-” Yuri shook his head and read the scene again. Yes, that sounded like him. He read on.

“I suppose this focusses on Yuuri Katsuki then?” Otto mused.

“I guess. I'd interpret Ilroi's note that way,” Yuri sighed.

“That means, my own entrance will be a lot later,” Otto said, “if I am to appear at all.”

“If Ilori omitted you I'll omitt him from the future,” Yuri said and continued to read, Otto's chin on his shoulder.

They came to his first longer scene, the first time he interacted what was Yuuri's stand in.

_“Not yet.” Garvanos had the distinct feeling this might change in the next few moments._

_“...Ossip mentioned it before, learn to listen if you want to survive. You should try out for it. Easy to sing, you might even get a small spot.”_

_“And what if not?”_

_The boy stared at him. “Then you're where you were before._

_“Why would you want me to try out?”_

_Alexej Beljajew snorted. “The what? Does this look like Paris to you?”_

_“Doesn't sound vomited up enough around here,” Garvanos said. “So, why then?”_

_“I like to see how far people can get.” His eyes were still hard and cool but the glass shard sharp edge had come off a bit. “Would be interesting to see how far you can get. If you get anywhere at all, it's just as likely that you remain flailing on the ground. That could be quite entertaining too.”_

_Yes, that sounded a little more like a typical primadonna than Deborah Santelli's sweet laughter and genuine smiles and Italian jokes._

_Andreas Kästner apparently was done watching the rehearsals and now turned around to Garvanos. “Oh, you're here already? Good. See you tonight, Beljajew!”_

_“Yeah, whatever,” Alexej Beljajew mumbled and then wandered off._

Otto dared to snort.

Yuri looked up to him. “I'll have you know,” he declared, very aware of the lie he was about to tell, “I am not that bitchy.”

Otto huffed and Yuri paused. 

His eyes wandered over the text. “Am I?” he then asked.

Otto smiled at him. “Not always.” He kissed him on the brow and pulled a chair up to it down next to him. “So, then.” He tipped the letter Ilroi had left behind. “What's with that?”

Illroi had pretty much spelled out what it was. Yuri sighed. “Well.”

“What is it?”

“I don't like it, you see.”

“For that I would have to know what it is,” Otto said.

“This, this- this!” Yuri tapped first the book, then the letter with his finger. “Ilroi said he already deposited some money in my name, you know that- that feels like this damn sponsorship thing you had to do in Dresden to get ahead and it is, like- urgh.” How could he put this into words? “First of, they think they have rights to you, sort off. That's pretty disgusting, you see.”

“Yes. I see that,” Otto sighed.

“And- and the idea that some rich fart is the deciding factor who gets ahead and who stays behind and-” He ran a hand through his hair. “I never wanted that. I never- I wanted to make it on my own, you see.”

“I see,” Otto said, “although I fail to see how you would be alone. Or am I an ant to you?”

Oh. 

“No, no, you are not, you-” Yuri took his hand and ran a finger over his thumb. “I-”

“I know.” Otto smiled. He was smiling an awful lot this evening. Not that Yuri complained, but he felt a little like he was being made fun of.

“But you should still take a look at it. If you don’t like it you can still burn it and nobody will ever have to know this letter came. And we can use the money for you to look for more rewarding work on your own.”

That would still be relying on Ilroi, Yuri wanted to argue.

But then again-

He took another look at the book, leafed through the pages and-

“It’s disturbing how spot on he is,” he sighed. “Alright, he dragged me to light, made clear what an ass I was, I- whatever he paid me, it will not be enough for compensation.”

Otto nodded. “That’s more like it.”

Yuri sighed, grabbed the envelope and snapped it open.

He only quickly ran his eyes over it and then set it aside. “Alright.”

“When are they expecting you?”

“February second,”

“That’s in two weeks,” Otto said. 

Yuri nodded, still staring at the paper.

“Will it be enough time?”

“To prepare? Should be enough. I think.” He hoped so. Half an hour every evening wasn’t exactly a professional practise routine.

But still.

Here it was. Here he had it and all he had to do was-

“So,” Otto said, “The big question is, will you give it a shot?”

Yuri stared at the letter again.

Then around. 

Then at Otto.

And then, at last, he breathed out. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> February 23rd will now always hold a special place in my heart.  
> Again.  
> I have an instagram at manjasiber  
> I have a wordpress at manjasiber  
> And a facebook at ManjaSiberAutorin
> 
> My private tumblr is siberianchan and I'd love you all to hit me up there, because there is so much I wanna share with you but the other sites are a more fitting format.
> 
> It's been such a journey from January 2017 to today and I am so grateful for everyone who joined me along the way.  
> Thank you. Thank you all so much.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooooooooooooooo...
> 
> I have a tumblr: siberianchan  
> I have a wordpress: manjasiber  
> I have an instagram: manjasiber.
> 
> If you wanna chat me up or see what I am up to or maybe admire my cat, check me out there.  
> I'd be happy to have you over there. My cat's seriously adorable.


End file.
